I lol'd (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zarahjoyce) wrote2010-09-19 04:05 pm
zarahjoyce) wrote2010-09-19 04:05 pm
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Fic prompts
Darla/Angel
she rings like a bell through the night
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She smells like dusk and destruction and damnation. My boy, she croons in his ear, her lips warm - warm - as they trail down, down, down on his skin, and it's delicious and wanton and deliriously familiar.
She lulls him into remembering the days of old, into forgetting what he is now, what he has now. My boy. And in those moments he's indeed her boy, the Scourge, the Terror. Death.
She moves in while he's at his most vulnerable, in the moments where slumber and wakefulness are nothing but blurred lines. He smiles and claims her, unrepentant of the bruises left on her skin and she wants it that way, craves the pain and blood and the gasping and moans. My boy.
She's all darkness and demons of the past, laughing and victorious. Every night, she comes to him, marking him as hers, forever and for always.
My darling boy.
Every night, he allows himself to be damned by her all over again.
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Darla/Drusilla
sweet things and dead children
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Grandmum has a patience of a burning stick. Crackling and sharp and red.
"I have displeased you," she murmurs, arms outstretched, imploring. "I didn't mean to, Grandmum. I--"
"Hush, Drusilla," she snaps, oh, how she snaps. "One more word and it'll be your last." Her glare's enough to shred her to pieces. Like delicate ribbons. Like shrapnels of delicious, juicy flesh.
She didn't know why, what she'd done, just that Grandmum's angry, and there will be pain. Not the pain that her William brings about in her; not the pain that makes her scream like it's her birthday when he draws her blood with his nails and fingers and devotion. Not the pain that Daddy inflicts with his sharp lips and deadly words and velvet ropes. No. It hurts too much, makes her recoil in the worst of ways.
She doesn't like it when Grandmum's angry. Families shouldn't be mad at each other. It's all wrong and bad and it makes the good souls cry.
It was dark when she comes home from hunting. There's a dance in her step and a song in her heart, and she sways in rhythm to what only angels can hear. Angels and innocents and princesses like her. Such a lovely, lovely tune.
"And here you are. I thought you'd found your end by now. Such a pity."
"Don't be so cross, Grandmum. Not tonight." She smiles largely, like a princess about to show her offering to the queen. "I've a present for you."
"A present." Grandmum's so hard to please. It makes her think only Daddy with his tongue and eyes can appease her. Such a pity, echoes in her head.
The sound of the tiniest of footfalls blares in the house. Then, "Mama?"
Her smile deepens, like a night forgotten by the naughty, naughty moon. "A present. Do you like it?" She moves closer to tell a secret: "Like jasmine and dreams, she is."
Grandmum grasps her by the shoulders and squeezes, and oh! the pain. She's about to recoil when she feels cool lips against her neck, then against her mouth.
"She's lovely," Grandmum says with a hungry smile. And, lo! No anger in her eyes and face, now. "Shall we share her, then?"
"Oh, yes," she says, lacing their fingers together with glee. "Oh, yes."
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These are lovely and disturbing.
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